The Summer Ghost

In the garden

I walk with not a trace

Of sadness.

The touch of brambles is enough.


To make my skin itch?

An understatement.

Worms fade like coffee-stained sunbeams

In the garden.


The warmth consumes everything, yet

Feels nothing.

By the callas a pair of dead eyes follow me

In the garden.


I gaze at dirty crystals dancing on leaves and then

A figure.

Moving above my chilled fingers, smelly flesh dissolving

In the garden.


We linger for a while,

Just staring.

As green turns to red.







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